((New post, because it is good for the universe. I would like to applaud all of the Cravat's fine members for not making a home/Holmes pun, nor yet a Holmesosexual pun. Not yet.))

Location: The CravatTime: Out of time

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stumbled out of the portal, Watson still a little wide eyed at the prospect of time travel, Holmes retaining his famous composure. They stood in wait of the others, avoiding each other's eyes.

Comments

"Yes, it is the public that administer the true punishment," Watson explained. "Particularly for Holmes. Men have taken their own lives rather than be exposed. Although. . .well, this is most likely not the reality of things. . ." Watson laughed weakly to himself. "I thought perhaps. . .one of his concerns was my marriage. He knows I love Mary - Mary is my wife - and, well, if the truth came out, she would never stay."

"But he did!" Watson said vehemently. "If you mean Mr. Michaud, he certainly did. He was strong - just as you are strong - but there were tears in his eyes. Please, do not think yourself weak. You are a remarkable man, Mr. - ah - Jeannot."

"You are very welcome. That is what I seem to be here for," Watson said, smiling good naturedly. "Holmes considered me his emotional deputy, I suppose. I am expected to console histrionic clients. Holmes does not do well with emotion."

Watson barked a laugh. "Good heavens, no, never. I know no more than you do. Only that Moriarty possesses compromising information, and that we must remain until the danger is passed. Although. . ." He frowned. "Do you know the nature of that information? How on earth did Moriarty find out the truth regarding. . .certain things? Or is it something else altogether? He said you both possess information - of course, it's why you're here - did you tell Moriarty? How did you know, then?" He stopped himself, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that's far too many questions."

"A man?" Watson went white. "I. . ." He made a sound somewhere between a choke and a sigh, then began to cough. When he had recovered, he looked emptily at Jeannot. "A man of what sort? A man of. . .our sort?" Did I just say our? He contemplated for a moment, but then his mind rushed along different lines. "A man. . .on what sort of terms with Holmes?"

Watson dropped Jeannot's hand, not out of unfriendliness, but simple shock, and stared at him, face empty of expression. "I. . ." He made a sound somewhere half between a choke and a sigh, then gritted his teeth and brought one hand to his forehead in a gesture of abject misery. "You are not joking," he said quietly. "And it should not affect me as it does." Taking a shaky breath, he made a failed attempt at composing himself.